"Ariel!" she fluted, "Spirit of the Violin, I'm
hungry--earthily, worm-of-the-dustly, unromantically hungry! Send us
something to eat."
"Why don't you rap on one of the tables," I suggested ironically,
"and call up your high spirits to do your bidding?"
"My high spirits won't be above making you a soothing cup of coffee
just as soon as that ancient African returns. In the meantime,
let's look around us."
People had forests to draw from when they built rooms like those in
Hynds House. There were eight of them on the first floor. On one
side the two drawing-rooms, the library, and behind that a room
evidently used for an office. We didn't know it then, of course, but
that library was treasure trove. Almost every book and pamphlet
covering the early American settlements, that is of any value at
all, is in Hynds House library; we have some pamphlets that even the
British Museum lacks.
The rooms had enough furniture to stock half a dozen antique-shops,
all of it in a shocking state, the brocades in tatters, the carvings
caked with dust. You couldn't see yourself in the tarnished mirrors,
the portraits were black with dirt, and most of the prints were
badly stained.
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